


Ars Moriendi

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-15 00:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: The quest for knowledge is a dangerous one.  Indil is about to find out just how dangerous, courtesy of Sauron.





	Ars Moriendi

It is noontime, and the hasty midday meal has hardly begun when a murmur ripples through the normally silent ranks. She ignores it, at first. If nothing else, she has learned that it does not do to get involved. She keeps her head down and focuses on the rhythm of her own movements—the scoop of a spoon into her mash, the lift of her hand to her mouth, the methodical chewing of tasteless mush she forces herself to swallow. It is not a particularly appetizing meal, but it is nourishing, and for that, she is grateful. The days are long in Angband, and she knows better than to let her strength diminish. Weakness here is tantamount to death.

A shadow falls over her, and she looks up at last. An orc she does not recognize stands over her, and she flinches, averting her gaze to the ground. They are nasty, fickle things, these orcs, quick to anger, slow to forgive. “Are you the one called Indil?” the orc asks, and Indil nods her head without looking up. “Come with me,” the orc says, and Indil’s blood runs cold.

Her mind races, but she calmly sets down her bowl and stands. She keeps her face neutral—another trick she has learned—and she follows the orc as he turns and leads her away. She tries to think of what she has done, tries to suss out what she possibly could have done wrong. The fact that her mind is blank is no comfort at all.

Still, nothing here is ever helped by panic, so she does her best to calm her mind and follows the orc that leads her. To her surprise, they are headed for the fortress. A fresh wave of fear engulfs her. She is a field slave. She lives with the others of her kind in the barracks near the fields. She hasn’t set foot in the fortress since—

—_the stink of blood in her nostrils, the drip of it down her face, the sweat that plasters her ragged, matted hair to her bruised and mottled skin_—

She swallows the gasp that rises in her throat and pushes the memory away. All prisoners begin their tenure here in the dungeons, but not all make it out. She was one of the unlucky souls who did, and she has put forth every effort not to give them reason to send her back. Her mind races anew, desperately searching for the thing she has done wrong and quietly, uselessly looking for a way to escape. There is none, of course. This is Angband.

The orc who leads her is silent, utterly indifferent. She longs to ask him where she is going and why, but she does not dare. Prisoners do not enjoy the luxury of questions. So instead she worries, and she follows. 

They pass into the fortress, and a shudder runs through her. It is cold and dark and damp here, and she cannot bear the feel of the stones under her feet. They are too much like the ones she slept and cried and bled on all those years before. They pass slaves that do not look at her; these have learned their lessons, same as she. The orcs and fiends and maiar have no such qualms, and she shivers under their hungry gaze. Still, the orc that leads her must have some level of protection, for no one stops or hassles them on their way.

On they go through twisting, labyrinthine corridors and down narrow, spiraling stairs. They are headed down toward the dungeons, to the underground heart of the fortress. Indil’s terror is a palpable thing, shaking her limbs and raising the hair on the back of her neck. She grits her teeth against it and balls her hands into fists, determined not to break. She walks on, forcing her feet to carry her close in the orc’s wake. They are close to the breaking pits now. She can smell them—the sweat, the blood, the piss and the fear made all the worse for their familiarity. Her heart is hammering in her chest, so loud she is sure the orc can hear it. Not again, her mind is screaming. Not again, not again, not again.

They turn down a corridor, and the stink and the clamor of the pits die away. A cold wave of relief rolls over her, and she scolds herself for it. She is on the dungeon level. She is anything but safe. 

They come to a door that is closed, but not pulled tight. The orc knocks three times in quick succession and enters, and Indil follows behind. The room she enters could have been any ordinary study. Bookshelves line one wall, overflowing with tomes and manuscripts and scrolls. There is a neat stack of freshly cut parchment on one shelf, a handful of expertly sharpened quills, and several squat jars of ink in various colors. Most striking is the desk, a beautiful, gleaming thing of dark lacquered wood. The legs are intricately carved to look like scales, and the feet are long, sharp talons. 

Sitting at the desk is a creature she has seen fleetingly handful of times, most recently in her nightmares. She stares at the back of his head, eyes tracing the plait of the fiery red hair. He is writing, head bent over the parchment before him, and he does not stop when they enter. He continues to write, acting for all the world as though he has not heard them come in. 

After a moment, the orc clears his throat. “My lord,” he says.

The quill scratches steadily across the parchment. The orc knows better than to speak again. Finally, the quill is laid aside, and he begins to shuffle the papers into order. “This is the one?” he asks, neatening the stack and setting it aside.

“Yes, my lord,” the orc says.

The creature at the desk stands up and turns, and she shudders involuntarily. She is never prepared for the lieutenant’s beauty, and she is startled by it again now, standing before him. The translucent cream of his skin, the spray of freckles across the chiseled angles of his face. He dresses well and moves with easy, assured grace, crossing the distance between them. “You may go,” the lieutenant says, dismissing the orc with a nod. The soldier turns to go, and Indil is alone.

Mairon looks her over. She keeps her eyes carefully on the ground, her head bowed. There is a moment of silence between them that makes her skin crawl, though she tries not to let him see her unease. After a while, he says, “You are the one called Indil.” 

“Yes,” she says.

He nods. “You know who I am,” he says, and she nods. “You may call me ‘my lord’.” The gentleness of his tone belies the command in his words. 

“Yes, my lord,” she says.

“Look at me, Indil.” 

She raises her head and meets his gaze. There is no malice in it that she can see, and yet it fills her with fear. His eyes feel as though they see through her, to the depths of her soul, and though his expression is neutral, ostensibly friendly, she knows better than to be at ease. She knows the horrors this pretty face belies.

“You studied under Estë,” he says, and she is momentarily nonplussed.

“Yes, my lord,” she says. He is silent, watching her, and she gets the feeling he is waiting for something more. “And Yavanna,” she adds, hoping this is right.

“You studied herbalism,” he says, “and the healing arts.”

“I did, my lord.”

“And were you a good practitioner?”

She is not entirely sure how to answer. “I did my best, my lord,” she says.

“Tell me,” he says, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. “What would you recommend for a headache?”

She considers the question for a moment, turning it this way and that in her mind, looking for the trap. Time is working against her; the lieutenant is not known for his patience. “Willow bark,” she says at last, clasping her trembling hands before her.

He nods. “And say I had no willow tree at my disposal?”

She blinks. “Feverfew,” she says.

“And if I have none of that?”

She thinks for a moment, toggling through the various pain remedies she knows, and then, before she can stop herself, she hears herself say, “For a headache, my lord, I would recommend you let it take its course.”

He tilts his head, and for a moment, she is afraid she has been too hasty. “Why?” he asks.

“Because the other remedies I know have risks that outweigh the benefits,” she says, “and a headache is hardly life-threatening.”

He smiles, then, and it is not as reassuring as it ought to be. A shiver creeps over her skin, and she fights to keep herself still. He turns, rummages in a drawer of the desk, and turns back to her. “What are these?” he asks, holding out his hand.

There is a collection of plant matter in his hands. She studies the flowers and leaves and roots, comparing them to a mental catalogue that has grown weaker with years of disuse. “Yarrow,” she says, pointing to a flower with a yellow center and delicate white flowers. “Aloe,” she says, pointing next to the spiky green tissue. “Burdock,” she says eyeing the purple flowers haloed by spikes. “Valerian,” she says of the pale purple sprig of tiny of flowers. “The rest,” she says, “I do not know.”

“Well, then,” he says, turning and replacing the detritus in the desk drawer. “It’s a start.” He turns back to her. “Are you squeamish, Indil?”

“Not particularly,” she says, forgetting herself.

“You will not faint at the sight of blood?”

“I haven’t in the past, my lord.”

“And now?”

She feels as though they’re having two different conversations, and the uncertainty is gnawing at her, making her head spin. “I don’t think so, my lord.”

“What I need,” the lieutenant says, “is an assistant. Someone with knowledge of herbs and the medicinal arts who can assist me in my research. Someone who will not flinch at the sight of blood or of broken bones. I need someone who can follow directions and learn the skills I require you to master. Do you think you can do that, Indil?” She is silent, frozen, torn between the dangers of answering and staying silent, of lying and of telling the truth. “I will not force you,” he says, his voice soft and honeyed, like the trap of a carnivorous plant. “If you do not think you are up to the task, then say the word. I will have you returned to your post.”

She is tempted, then. Every fiber of her being screams that this is dangerous ground, that there is a trap here, that nothing he says can be trusted. She wants desperately to get away, to never look at his beautiful, terrible face again. She longs to refuse him, to flee back to the toil of the fields, but she is afraid. There is danger in refusal, in displeasure; she has learned this lesson well and does not want to learn it again. 

“I will do it,” she says, hoping fervently she will not come to regret the choice, hollow though it may have been.

He nods, and she knows that now, for better or for worse, her fate is sealed.

“Very good,” he says, and pushes past her toward the door. “Come with me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
